


Madness the Magnet

by trimalchio



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 12:43:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1267018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trimalchio/pseuds/trimalchio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karim Benzema is lonely and isolated at his new club, due to his secret relationship with Zinedine Zidane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Madness the Magnet

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I wrote this for the Futbal Minibang and you should really check out the art by iheartthomas/maisoun. It's so good!
> 
> http://futbal-minibang.livejournal.com/3568.html
> 
> Also, I want to thank my beta, dld_ftw.

 

Karim Benzema checked his phone for approximately the seventh time that night.It was almost nine o'clock and he was toying with the idea of going to bed, maybe watching some French soap operas on his computer before drifting off to sleep.He was supposed to be reading a chapter in his Spanish book for his lessons, but he couldn't really be bothered.It was a book meant for children, clearly; it had a cartoon dog with sunglasses on the cover.His mind wasn't focused.He just flipped through the pages, barely registering what was written down.

Karim shut his book, even though that dumb cartoon dog taunted him.His phone vibrated loudly on the counter and he snatched it up quickly, checking his text messages feverishly.He buzzed his guest up to his apartment and waited by his apartment door, unable to not be awkward.There was a calm knock and Karim opened it, like Pavlov's dog, without a second thought of whether it was a good idea to.

Zinedine Zidane had been Karim's personal hero since he was a kid, who had sat in front of the television, eyes glued to the 1998 World Cup.His dad yelled at him for blocking everyone's view, but Karim couldn't help but be terribly drawn towards it.He had worshipped at the altar of Zidane, Thuram, and Makélélé.As a twenty-one year old in a quiet apartment in a city where everyone else was having fun, it felt good to have Zidane pay him covert nightly visits.

Zidane barely spoke, but just having his hot breath on the back of Karim's neck was enough for him.Afterwards, when Zidane left, Karim usually felt curdled and empty, but in the moment, it was good.It felt good to have the remnants of someone else's body heat in his bed.And Karim made do with that.He put on his headphones and turned his music all the way up to drown out the silence.

In the morning, at training, Karim barely knew what was going on.The Manager was Chilean, speaking only in Spanish.The others stuttered in conversation towards Karim, relying on over-exaggerated gestures and Lass for translation.He probably should have paid more attention in his Spanish lessons, but he never really enjoyed schooling, even when it was important.School had never been important for him; there was a reason he was a footballer, instead of a doctor.He floated through training and felt as though he was so untethered he might float away.

Karim was almost disappointed to be on the bus going to an away game, since it meant that his nightly ritual was disrupted.He got on the bus early, sitting in an empty row, against the window, hoping to avoid having to mime his way through an awkward conversation with someone he didn't know very well.Karim looked out the window, with his music turned up as much as was polite.Gonzalo Higuaín sat down next to him.Karim knew pity when he saw it and Gonzalo was far from subtle.Most of their teammates liked Gonzalo (friendly, funny, loud Gonzalo), while it was probably very easy to dislike Karim (moody, stupid, uncommunicative Karim).

Halfway through the bus trip, Gonzalo passed him a note.

“I was born in France.In Brest.Have you ever been there?” It read as though it had been translated by a monkey, who was particularly adept in French.But Karim appreciated the effort, so he smiled and nodded, though he had been in Brest for footballing purposes, not for visiting.During the game, it rained like they were living through a hurricane.Karim didn't get wet at all; he sat under the overhang of the bench, waiting for the manager to call his name, but it didn't happen.

Sometimes, Zidane slept over, though he was always gone before Karim woke up.He liked those nights.Karim was particularly skilled in self-delusion.Zidane bit down on his shoulder and Karim winced at the unexpected pain, clenching his whole body.Karim woke up alone, like usual, and got ready for training.He turned up his music to fill a little bit of the quiet; it echoed across his apartment, filling up the corners.

After training, when he was changing into his normal clothes, Ramos pointed something out to Casillas, laughing loudly.The others said things in Spanish with the patterns of jokes, but Karim couldn't recognize it as such.He looked to Lass, who said, a bit uncomfortably, “Sergio pointed out you have a love bite.”

Karim turned pink, probably to the roots of his hair.He pulled on his shirt and left before anyone else.

His Spanish tutor despaired of him, while they struggled through easy-to-read books, possibly meant for children with learning difficulties.She assigned him extra pages to work on, by himself.Karim's mother pled for him to call the house more; then, the phone was passed around to each of his siblings, while they updated him on the neighborly gossip.Karim missed them, even if they had driven him insane just four months earlier, when didn't know that he'd be in Madrid in the fall.He relaxed under the stream of their conversations.

Zidane was at training, so Karim tried extra hard to concentrate, to impress him, but instead, he hit the ball against a crossbar, which bounced back and hit him in the face.Pepe, Marcelo, and Ronaldo almost cried from laughing so much, while Kaká said something that Karim didn't really catch, but it, at least, sounded vaguely encouraging.Pepe, Marcelo, Ronaldo and Kaká were like a four-headed Lusophonic monster; Karim usually tried to stay out of their way and they seemed to prefer it that way.  
Afterwards, Zidane smiled at him and led him to a maintenance closet, after almost everyone had gone back to their own homes.Karim didn't have anyone to go home to, so it was perfectly fine with him.Karim got down on his knees; it wasn't even a question in his mind, if he would.Zidane was Zidane and most people would murder their grandmothers for that privilege.Karim's fingers lingered on the zipper; Zidane was wearing proper slacks, the kind that businessmen wore.Karim felt underdressed, just wearing jeans and a t-shirt, even though somewhere in his head, he was pretty sure that was an insane thought.

The fly was open and Karim was opening his mouth when the door opened, then slammed shut.Out of some kind of weird, awkward instinct, he pretended to tie his shoelaces, while Zidane zipped up his pants and went to investigate.Karim didn't even wait for Zidane to return or for Zidane to call him or anything.He just walked to his car, like everything was normal and went to his apartment building.

He was sweating like he had just run a marathon, so he sat in his shower, in cold water.Karim could hear his phone ringing.It was lying on the counter next to the sink, in his bathroom.It kept ringing.He was pretty sure that he was either going to drown in the shower or shrivel up like a raisin.

Eventually, he got out of the shower and answered the phone.Zidane demanded, without even a greeting, “Buzz me up.”

And Karim buzzed him up and sat on his couch, while Zidane paced around the mostly empty living room, talking about plans, so they could both save their jobs, though Zidane seemed less concerned with both of their careers, than his.Zidane slept over, though Karim didn't want him to, but he couldn't say no.What would he have said, anyway?Zidane wasn't even there when Karim woke up.

Karim went to training, fervently hoping that the day before had been a really bad fever dream.He felt nauseous and awful.While he was getting dressed for training, the Manager motioned for Karim to follow him.They went into one of the important conference rooms, where you were only supposed to go if you were hired or fired.There were a dozen old men in suits and a secretary with a laptop, all crammed into the one conference room.  
One of the men in suits, Karim recognized him as a translator, asked in French, “Why were you in the maintenance closet?”

Karim shrugged.He was going to get fired, shipped back to France, so what did it matter?He was going to be humiliated and lose everything, so why even bother?No one probably expected any differently (it was just sullen, moody Karim).

“Why were you on your knees?”

“I was tying my shoes,” Karim grunted.

“You were tying your shoes?” the translator asked carefully.Karim nodded, without looking up.If they were going to fire him, at least he'd get a story out of it.One to tell the other washed-up has-beens he would inevitably meet at an imaginary, future bar, whether it was in Lyon or Madrid.

The translator whispered quickly to the president, Florentino Pérez, who sat at the head of the table, a silent king, who was in charge of Karim's future.

“Did Zinedine Zidane expose himself to you?”

Karim shrugged, “I didn't see anything.I was tying my shoes.”

After three hours of insisting that he had problems with his shoelaces, they finally let Karim out of the conference room.Karim went to his locker and grabbed his boots, his shinguards, towels, clothes, and water bottles, shoving them into his duffel bag.The others on the team were in the locker room and had fallen silent when Karim entered.

Karim walked right out, without saying a word to any of them, not that he could even say anything to anyone but Lass.He was no thought and all action, thoroughly empty.Karim was pretty sure that he was hollow and could echo on the inside.

Karim drove to Zidane's house.Maybe he was there, with a plan.Karim pressed the doorbell, tapping his fingers against the door frame.Zidane's wife answered.She was pretty enough to be a model.She might have even been one.A realization hit Karim hard, so hard he almost got a nosebleed from sheer stress.It wasn't him and Zidane against everyone else.It was Karim vs. Zidane vs. everyone else.

She asked, sounding concerned like a mother, which she probably was, “You are Karim, right?My husband's prodigy?You should stay for dinner.”

Karim didn't say anything.She deserved every apology that he had, but he couldn't summon any.He felt ill, trapped, and empty.Just so empty.Spent and tired.He squeaked out a quick “sorry” that was laden with more guilt and genuine regret than he ever intended and drove back to his empty apartment.He didn't even have one picture hung on his walls.Not one of his family, not a poster of his favorite rapper, nothing.His blank, white walls greeted him coldly.  
Karim opened his freezer and pulled out a bottle of vodka that had been chilling there since he moved in.He put on his headphones and turned up his music until his eardrums were rattling.  

He slept in for the first time since July.He wasn't officially kicked off of Real Madrid, but it was a safe assumption.People just didn't have affairs with Zinedine Zidane and got away with it.You couldn't just lie to Florentino Pérez and expect to get away with it.Karim was too hungover to drive, let alone run around on the training pitch.He had gone to bed and woke up alone, not that he should have expected any differently.

Was Zidane supposed to show up or something?Karim knew that wasn't how things worked; he already ruined the man's marriage and career, probably.This kind of thing turned people into islands, anyway, forcing them to prioritize personal ambitions over collective well-being.Karim had to be honest and admit that he wasn't any more noble in caring about others.It was Karim's turn.Zidane had been twenty-one already and used that time up, quite a few years earlier.

Karim's phone blinked on the night stand; there were missed calls and several voicemails.Four were from Zidane, six were from other staff, and two were from his brothers.He had about a dozen unread text messages.They were probably all afraid that he had killed himself or something, considering his prior behavior.Karim left the phone on the sink counter and sat on his bathroom floor, kneeling in front of the toilet.The cool tile felt good under his hot, sweaty skin.

He wanted (maybe even needed) to talk to someone, but there wasn't really anyone to tell.Total emotional and external self-destruction wasn't really a topic of conversation for parents and siblings.He didn't know Lass well enough to confide in him and the rest of his teammates didn't even know French, nor did Karim even know if they liked him (crazy, weird, stupid Karim).Not that he wanted to tell them that he was getting fired because he was having an affair with one of the “special advisors to the President.”Karim was a lot of things (stubborn, moody, shy), but he wasn't completely ignorant.  
While he was emptying his guts, there was a knock at his apartment door, which Karim almost didn't hear.He brushed his teeth and went to answer it, assuming it was the concierge with a package or something.Instead, Raúl, Guti, and Gonzalo Higuaín were waiting outside of his door.

“¿Como estás?” Raúl greeted him, looking around the apartment warily.Karim knew that the empty vodka bottle was in his bedroom, since he had slipped on it and almost decapitated himself when he extricated himself from his sheets.

“Yo soy...” Karim's woeful grasp on Spanish betrayed him, as it usually did, “...ensalada.”

“¿Ensalada?” Raúl looked to Gonzalo, as though “ensalada” was a newfangled slang term that Raúl was too old to understand.Gonzalo was equally mystified and shrugged in return.

Guti suggested, “¿Enfermo?¿Eres tú enfermo?”  
“Oui,” Karim nodded, since that sounded right.

“¿Con qué?”

Karim hadn't quite gotten to the medical section in his Spanish lessons, since he and his tutor had gotten stuck somewhere in the food chapter.To his credit, Raúl did speak to Karim as though he was extremely dumb.Karim appreciated that to some level, especially since Guti spoke like Karim was already fluent.Karim stumbled with his words, “Dolor de...”

He rubbed his belly and mimed vomiting.Raúl, Guti, and Gonzalo took a collective step back.It was probably good that Karim was terrible at communicating in Spanish, in this particular situation, since it did absolve his responsibility to explain how his symptoms arose.Karim probably couldn't even express the circumstances that led him to get drunk and result in a hangover.

“Nadie sabía dónde estabas,” Guti informed Karim.For all Karim knew, Guti was racially abusing him in Spanish, but considering that he knew a little bit about Guti, he doubted that was the gist.Karim shrugged.

Gonzalo shrugged back at him:jutting out his lower lip into a frown, drawing both shoulders high towards his ears, and his palms facing the ceiling.It was an incredibly familiar gesture, but he couldn't quite place it.Gonzalo said, smiling, “Ese eres tú.”

Guti laughed, patting Gonzalo on the back, “Karim es muy francés.”

It wasn't until about three hours after Raúl, Guti, and Gonzalo left that Karim even realized that Gonzalo had been imitating him.He made that revelation, while he was drinking wine and watching a French soap opera on his computer.

He finished his first bottle (a house warming gift from Zidane that Karim hadn't yet opened) and felt only a little drunk, so he rooted around the cabinets to find another.Karim knew that one of his sisters had sent him a few bottles of bargain wine as a house warming gift, so he just had to locate it.Not that he had a lot of places to look; his cabinets were mostly empty.His refrigerator had a box of oranges, an old onion, and a carton of grapefruit juice in it.

Karim found the wine in the back of a cabinet that was also occupied by his unused pots.Karim hadn't cooked anything that wasn't pasta himself since he lived in France.The pots were just kind of necessities that Karim was supposed to have, as a supposed adult, but just hadn't quite used.

His sister's wine had a weird aftertaste and wasn't particularly good.It did make his stomach ache uncomfortably, as he got more drunk.

He was bored and drunk and couldn't focus on the Spanish movie that he had on his television.Everyone was in prison and everything seemed depressing, so he read the label on the bottle of wine that Zidane had bought him.Which caused him to decide to call Zidane, but Zidane hadn't picked up, so Karim left a message on his voice mail, “Are you busy tonight?Not that I want you come here.I was just curious.I was just looking at the wine you gave me.It's really good.Not that you can have any.I drank it all already.”

It was awkward and stupid, but Karim didn't embarrass himself at first.

“Are you that nice to your wife?” Karim asked Zidane's voicemail, almost expecting a response, “Because you were nice to me.Do you still feel bad if you treat both of us well?I'm just curious.”

And that's when he hung up.It wasn't until a half hour later that Karim realized what he had done.He wanted to scratch off all of his skin and turned back time.Not that it really mattered.His career was over anyway.He was just biding his time until an official notice came.Maybe he could just become a transient, enjoying a life on the open road.

No, he couldn't.Karim enjoyed material possessions far too much to even consider that lifestyle seriously.How would he charge his phone or his iPod?How would he check his Facebook on an hourly basis?It just wasn't going to work out.

Because he was largely incapable of determining what was important and what wasn't, Karim decided to take a shower, in a misguided effort to scrub his body and mind clear of the embarrassing voicemail he left for Zidane.The entire bathroom had fogged up by the steam from the shower.Due to his drunkenness and a natural predisposition towards bad luck, when Karim leant down to pick up the soap from the dish, he slipped on the slick tub surface.He hit his head against the tile side of the shower and let out a stream of words his mother would have yelled at him for, “Merde!Pute!Merde!”

Karim had his hand clasped to the spot on his head that he had hit, as he crawled out of the shower, like an injured soldier.Surely, it probably looked like he had dual heads and when he opened his eyes, he was fairly certain he saw everything upside down.Fantastic.He probably detached his retinas and was going to go blind.Not only had Karim ruined his career by having an affair with his mentor, he had blinded himself accidentally, during the course of an extensive pity party.

Karim wanted to reach out for his phone to call someone, the police perhaps.Who did you call when you possibly were going blind, probably had a concussion, and couldn't really speak Spanish?Maybe, he could just die in his bathroom, just to avoid further embarrassment.He didn't really have a choice on who to call.

When Zidane picked up his phone, he sounded extremely annoyed, “It's two in the morning and I've already listened to your other pity fest.You better be dying.”

“I might be,” Karim said, thoroughly seriously, “I think I'm going blind, too.”

Karim pulled on clothes and waited in front of his front door, sitting there.He touched his head gingerly; he was fairly certain he hadn't cracked his skull or anything significantly severe, but he was almost certain that he had a concussion.The spot where he hit was extremely tender.

There was a knock at his door and Karim reached out to pull on the doorknob to open it.Zidane came in, wearing pajama pants and a dark blue jacket.

“What happened?”

“I slipped in the shower.”

Zidane took a look around the living room, probably noticing the three empty wine bottles on the coffee table.Wordlessly, Zidane helped Karim up and they went to the hospital together.Zidane had driven to his apartment and was driving to the hospital.Zidane opened his mouth and took a deep breath, as though preparing himself to lecture Karim, but stopped himself.

Karim asked, “Do you hate me?”

Zidane rolled his eyes, “You are the most self-absorbed person I know.People say shit about Ronaldo, but clearly they've never heard about Karim Benzema.I'm honestly surprised that you are aware that there is, in fact, a world around you, sometimes.”

Karim slid down in the front seat, slumped a little bit, not responding.

“Were you drinking?”  
“Why does it matter?I don't know there is a world around me.”

Zidane sighed, “First of all, that doesn't make sense.And it does matter because you are paid a lot of money to not drink while you are also training.I have my reputation on the line if you don't succeed.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why is your reputation on the line now?Shouldn't it already be fucked?We're both fired because they caught us.”

“Actually, they caught you tying your shoe in a maintenance closet.That's all they caught us doing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The committee took your word for it.”

“No fucking way.”

“They might not have believed you, but all that matters is that they decided to agree that you were tying your shoes.I still have my job; you still have yours.”

“Why would they?I didn't even make sense.”

Zidane stopped; they had gotten to the hospital, “I think you should go inside now.”

“Are you coming in, too?”

“I have to park the car first.”

Karim had a concussion.It wasn't one where he was going to die or anything, but still one where the team physio told Karim that he was on the injury list for a week or two.Just to be on the safe side.

“The Real Madrid striker is alleged to have been showering when he slipped and hit his head,” his sister read a newspaper headline to him over the phone.

“The tabloids got something right for once,” Karim replied.He wasn't allowed to watch television or go on his computer or his phone, other than accepting calls.Most of the day was dedicated to listening to music, until that gave him a headache.

“Have you taken a picture of yourself yet?”

“Can't be around bright flashes.Do you want me to die?” Karim asked.

“I'm willing to take that risk.Does it look like another human head is emerging from your head?”

Perhaps a mild brain injury was just what Karim needed to put things into perspective.Well, it did force him to be around Zidane in an utterly nonsexual context and it did force him to confront whether he had actually been fired.

Karim mostly listened to his Spanish recordings because the narrator had a nice, soothing voice.His mind felt more sensitive and he wasn't supposed to drive, so he had nothing to do, but listen to the tapes.His Spanish teacher would probably be pleased, since some of it was bound to seep into his subconscious somehow.

A knock at the door interrupted his mostly empty day.Other than talking to his sister, Karim spent most of his day, laying on his couch, staring at the ceiling.Karim stood up to open the door and found Zidane standing in the doorway.Karim almost shut the door immediately, but instead he said, “How'd you get in?You didn't buzz.”

“One of your neighbors held the door open for me.I'm kind of a big deal in this city,” Zidane held up a plastic take-out bag, “I have sustenance.Pérez can't afford to have you starve to death.”

Zidane came into the apartment and sat down at the table.Karim sat down across from him; Zidane pushed the bag towards him.Karim looked at the bag for a minute, before asking, “Do you really think I'm completely self-obsessed?”

Zidane sighed, “Do you think you aren't?”

“That's not really answering my question.I know I'm a jerk.Do you think I am one?”

Zidane hesitated, looking above Karim's head briefly, “No more so than anyone else your age.”

“If I'm so self-absorbed, why did you want to be with me?” Karim asked, opening the bag, pulling out a styrofoam box.It smelled pretty good, whatever it was.

“It's hard to be...not playing anymore.”

“So?” Karim asked.It was mostly unsurprising that being retired was boring.Zidane's knees were probably always aching and women didn't send him anonymous pictures of their butts anymore.Probably.

Zidane sighed, as he usually did, “It is very difficult to not be the best anymore.”

“You are the best,” Karim reminded him, reaching out to touch Zidane's hand.

“I might have been the best.That's what I used to be,” Zidane replied, “Messi or Ronaldo, take your pick, is the best now.”

“I don't get what you're saying.”

“It's different when you're not playing anymore,” for once, it seemed as though Zidane struggled with his words, “You...you still believe that I'm the best.”

“Well, you are.”

“Sometimes, I just wanted to feel like I used to.”

“So I just make you feel better about being an old man?”

“When you say it like that, it sounds less romantic.”

“I sound like a hooker.”

It was pretty much settled on where that relationship went.

Karim went back to training, albeit indoor training, four days later, with Ronaldo and a few of the other injured players.During lunch, Karim sat down at an empty table, like a lonely high school student.He had text messages to send, so he wouldn't seem so depressingly alone.Instead, Gonzalo sat down next to him.

“¿Sigues enfermo?”

Karim shook his head, “Mi Cabeza...es bueno.”

“Buena,” Gonzalo nodded.

Some of the other players sat down with them, mostly the players in Gonzalo's entourage.They didn't even seem to remember that Karim had mostly rejected them before, in his pre-concussed state.Álvaro Arbeloa and Sergio Ramos tried to explain some movie, through miming. And it was pretty good, to be involved, even if he didn't understand most of it.

And it was pretty good, to be involved, even if he didn't understand most of it.

 

My Seventh Grade Spanish Dictionary:  
“¿Como estás?”:  “How are you?”  
“Yo soy...ensalada.”:  “I am...salad.”  
“¿Ensalada?”:  “Salad?”  
“¿Enfermo?  ¿Eres tú enfermo?”:  “Sick?  Are you sick?”  
“¿Con qué?”:  “With what?”  
“Dolor de...”:  “Pain in...”  
“Nadie sabía dónde estabas,”:  “No one knew where you were.”  
“Ese eres tú.”:  “That's you.”  
“Karim es muy francés.”:  “Karim is very French.”  
“¿Sigues enfermo?”:  “Are you still sick?”  
“Mi Cabeza...es bueno.”:  “My head is good.”  
“Buena.”:  Good.

[Maisoun's artwork](http://imgur.com/JhrAmBb)

**Author's Note:**

> For real, check out maisoun's artwork.
> 
> http://futbal-minibang.livejournal.com/3568.html


End file.
